


Chekov Takes the Helm

by jelazakazone



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Chair Sex, Masturbation, Other, Wanking Comment Fest, captain's chair, chair!kink, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jelazakazone/pseuds/jelazakazone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chekov sits in the Captain’s chair</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chekov Takes the Helm

**Author's Note:**

> I cant remember exactly how this idea happened, if I raised it or if fuzzytomato suggested it, but then she pointed me to [the Star Trek Kink Meme prompt: Self loving Chekov Some how he finds himself alone on the bridge and decides to have a wank in the captains chair. :)](http://strek-id-kink.livejournal.com/1695.html?thread=26271#t26271) and I HAD to write it. Chair!kink FTW. Thanks to fuzzytomato  and fleete for the beta! Any mistakes or lapses are entirely mine.

Pinpricks of excitement danced on the surface of his skin, raising the hair on his arms. Chekov was _on the bridge_. His rise in station had been precipitous, between his own academic accomplishments and the cards destiny had dealt. Practically bouncing as he trailed his fingers along the instrument panel, he barely noticed his feet touching the ground. He was soaking up all that was to come.  
  
Chekov knew that he was only an ensign, but he had been assigned to the bridge. He had to be prepared for anything. What if the entire rest of the crew were incapacitated and he had to take the helm? Excitement rose in him as he strode to the Captain’s Chair. He paused facing it, reflecting for a moment that he should not sit in the chair until the time arose, and then he turned, unable to control the impulse.  
  
Flexing his knees and wiping damp palms, he sank down onto the seat which adjusted itself to his proportions. Chekov had sat in state-of-the-art seating before, but never one so fine as this. Heat rose in him, starting from his loins, traveling up until his cheeks flushed.  
  
He stroked the leather arms, knowing they were synthetic, but reveling in the feel of the fine grain under his fingertips. It recalled dust and animals and heat, stolen moments in the hayloft overlooking horses who knickered in their stalls. Chekov relaxed, leaning back into the chair, which accommodated his moves seamlessly.  
  
The smell of new materials tickled his nose and he stifled a sneeze. He looked around at the sleek, gleaming surfaces, taking in the vast possibilities. Although the ship was powered down, in his aroused state of heightened sensitivity, he noticed the low thrum of the engines powering the essential systems and the vibrations went straight to his cock.  
  
He could not still his mind; it bubbled with emotion. To _be_ the captain! To say, “Punch it!” His heart fluttered, butterflies rose in his chest. The ship was unresponsive, powered down and instrument panels off, as it should be, but that thought... Chekov stroked his thighs, fingers splayed.  
  
Sitting in the chair, thoughts of command, even the smell of the fake leather excited him. Giddy, he did not resist the urge to bring his hands up, to rub his chest where his erect nipples raised the fabric of his uniform even knowing that someone could walk in on him. He stifled a groan as blood rushed to his cock. He flicked his nipples with his thumbnails, wanting more friction.  
  
The chair responded to him as no lover had, increasing his desire. He rolled his hips. He licked his lips and slipped a hand under his waistband. Bending his wrist awkwardly under the regulation issue trousers, he formed a fist, and eagerly thrust his cock into it, slowly rolling his hips and flexing his buttocks. He pumped twice before rubbing his thumb over the slit, taking advantage of the leaking pre-come.  
  
Pleasure spiked through him as he wriggled, working through the constraints of his pants and the confines of the chair. He arched his back, seeking a better angle and gasped out his pleasure. He increased his tempo and moaned.  
  
The chair was providing resistance and nothing had ever felt this good, not his first solo fumbles or tumbles in the hayloft in the mid-summer heat. He stroked himself, thinking about all he could command from this chair. Back arched, he spilled, semen further lubricating his pleasure as he continued to stroke through his orgasm which undulated in timeless space.  
  
Finally, spent, he opened his eyes. The hem of his shirt was soaked. He rubbed a hand through his hair, discovering his hair was wet too. As the excitement ebbed, a little shame fell over him. He’d lost control; he was not ready for command. But youthful hope rose in him. He would earn the chair. He would.


End file.
